I wake up to the sound of your 6.45 alarm,
only to realise it’s mid afternoon where you are
and I was nowhere near your phone, your sheets, or you.
I get home at 3 or maybe 4 in the afternoon,
waiting for you to come in shortly after me
but you’re already sleeping if all is right.
I wait for that short crack of time, between 11 and 7,
as we both move around the bed – shared space even
in this frustrating distance – one in, one out
like an exclusive club of which neither of us is
really a member, we just sneaked our way in and
will be discovered soon. We better enjoy it while it lasts.
Exchange hellos, trade good wishes for the day
for the night and wait for another revolution
before we meet again.
To say the truth, I’m no musician
and barely a poet.
I’m just playing with the idea
of connecting the dots and lines and
pauses in between.
Reading the meaning
between the lines
and finding there is none.
So I’ll invent one.
I hear the words humming
of years and time and sex
of what had happened once
and that one ex.
Yes, that one.
I see the music playing
soundtracks to other lives
other stories other times
all those other things
that could have been.
I smell the words around us
of mornings and leftovers,
are you sure and should we really?
I taste the music around us
a touch of eager sweetness,
playful and, of course, bitter.
But most of all
I feel them.
The words and the music
chasing each other.
Music and words
avoiding each other.
A syncopated dance
of mutual shunning,
a scornful waltz
of unwelcome attraction,